The fire was nearly out when Caleb entered his kitchen door and drew a chair to the stove. Carleton’s taunting words, “Why don’t you take her home?” rang in his ears. Their sting hurt him. Everything else seemed to fall away from his mind. He knew why he did not take her home, he said to himself; every one else knew why,—every one up and down Keyport knew what Betty had done to ruin him. If she was friendless, tramping the road, within sight of her own house, whose fault was it? Not his. He had never done anything but love her and take care of her.

He reached for a pair of tongs, stirred the coals, and threw on a single piece of driftwood. The fire blazed up brightly at once, its light flickering on the diver’s ruddy face, and as quickly died out.

“Why don’t I take care of ’er, eh? Why didn’t she take care of herself?” he cried aloud, gazing into the smouldering embers. “She sees what it is now trampin’ the road nights, runnin’ up agin such curs as him. He’s a nice un, he is. I wish I’d choked the life out’er him; such fellers ain’t no right to live,” looking about him as if he expected to find Carleton behind the door, and as quickly recovering himself. “I wonder if he hurt ’er,”—his voice had softened. “She screamed turrible. I ought, maybe, to ’a’ ketched up to her. Poor little gal, she ain’t used to this.” He was silent awhile, his head bent, his shoulders updrawn, his big frame stretched out in the chair.

“She ain’t nothin’ but a child, anyhow,” he broke out again,—“Cap’n Joe says so. He says I don’t think o’ this; maybe he’s right. He says I’m bigger an’ twice as old’s she be, an’ ought’er know more; that it ain’t me she’s hurted,—it’s herself; that I married her to take care of ’er; and that the fust time she got in a hole I go back on ’er, ’cause she’s dragged me in arter ’er. Well, ain’t I a-takin’ care of ’er? Ain’t I split squar’ in two every cent I’ve earned since she run away with that”—

Caleb paused abruptly. Even to himself he never mentioned Lacey’s name. Bending forward he poked the fire vigorously, raking the coals around the single stick of driftwood. “It’s all very well for th’ cap’n to talk; he ain’t gone through what I have.”

Pushing back his chair he paced the small room, talking to himself as he walked, pausing to address his sentences to the several articles of furniture,—the chairs, the big table, the kitchen sink, whatever came in his way. It was an old trick of his when alone. “I ain’t a-goin’ to have ’er come home so late no more,” he continued. His voice had sunk to a gentle whisper. “I’m goin’ to tell them folks she works for that they’ve got to let ’er out afore dark, or she shan’t stay.” He was looking now at an old rocker as if it were the shopkeeper himself. “She’ll be so scared arter this she won’t have a minute’s peace. She needn’t worrit herself, though, ’bout that skunk. She’s shut o’ him. But there’ll be more of ’em. They all think that now I’ve throwed ’er off they kin do as they’ve a mind to.” He stopped again and gazed down at the floor, seemingly absorbed in a hole in one of the planks. “Cap’n Joe sez I ain’t got no business to throw ’er off. He wouldn’t treat a dog so,—that’s what ye said, cap’n; I ain’t never goin’ to forgit it. I ain’t throwed her off. She throwed me off,—lef’ me here without a word; an’ ye know it, cap’n. Ye want me to take ’er back, do ye?” He spoke with as much earnestness as though the captain stood before him. “S’pose I do, an’ she finds out arter all that her comin’ home was ’cause she was skeared of it all, and that she still loved”—

He stopped, reseated himself, and picking up another stick threw it on the fire, snuggling the two together. The sticks, cheered by each other’s warmth, burst into a crackling flame.

“Poor little Betty!” he began again aloud. “I’m sorry for ye. Everybody’s agin ye, child, ’cept Cap’n Joe’s folks. I know it hurts ye turrible to have folks look away from ye. Ye always loved to have folks love ye. I ain’t got nothin’ agin ye, child, indeed I ain’t. It was my fault, not yourn. I told Cap’n Joe so; ask him,—he’ll tell ye.” He turned toward the empty chair beside him, as if he saw her sad face there. “I know it’s hard, child,” shaking his head. “Ain’t nobody feels it more ’n me,—ain’t nobody feels it more ’n me. I guess I must take care o’ ye; I guess there ain’t nobody else but me kin do it.”

The logs blazed cheerily; the whole room was alight. “I wish ye loved me like ye did onct, little woman,—I wouldn’t want no better happiness; jest me an’ you, like it useter was. I wonder if ye do? No, I know ye don’t.” The last words came with a positive tone.

For a long time he remained still, gazing at the blazing logs locked together, the flames dancing about them. Then he got up and roamed mechanically around the room, his thoughts away with Betty and her helpless condition, and her rightful dependence on him. In the same dreary way he opened the cupboard, took out a piece of cold meat and some slices of stale bread, laying them on the table, poured some tea into a cup and put it on the stove; it was easier making the tea that way than in a pot. He drew the table toward the fire, so that his supper would be within reach, stirring the brewing tea meanwhile with a fork he had in his hand, and began his frugal meal. Since Betty left he had never set the table. It seemed less lonely to eat this way.

Just as he had finished there came a knock at the front door. Caleb started, and put down his cup. Who could come at this hour? Craning his head toward the small open hall, he saw through the glass in the door the outlines of a woman’s figure approaching him through the hall. His face flushed, and his heart seemed to jump in his throat.

“It’s me, Caleb,” said the woman. “It’s Aunty Bell. The door was open, so I didn’t wait. Cap’n sent me up all in a hurry. He’s jes’ come in from the Ledge, and hollered to me from the tug to send up and get ye. The pump’s broke on the big h’ister. A new one’s got to be cast to-night and bored out to-morrer, if it is Sunday. Cap’n says everything’s stopped at the Ledge, and they can’t do another stroke till this pump’s fixed. Weren’t nobody home but Betty, and so I come myself. Come right along; he wants ye at the machine shop jes’ ’s quick as ye kin git there.”

Caleb kept his seat and made no reply. Something about the shock of discovering who the woman was had stunned him. He did not try to explain it to himself; he was conscious only of a vague yet stinging sense of disappointment. Automatically, like a trained soldier obeying a command, he bent forward in his chair, drew his thick shoes from under the stove, slipped his feet into them, and silently followed Aunty Bell out of the house and down the road. When they reached Captain Joe’s gate he looked up at Betty’s window. There was no light.

“Has Betty gone to bed?” he asked quietly.

“Yes, more ’n an hour ago. She come home late, all tuckered out. I see ’er jes’ before I come out. She said she warn’t sick, but she wouldn’t eat nothin’.”

Caleb paused, looked at her as if he were about to speak again, hesitated, then, without a word, walked away.

“Stubborn as a mule,” said Aunty Bell, looking after him. “I ain’t got no patience with such men.”